Volatile
by Lepidissima
Summary: Speculation on the development of Dr. Poison, based on some comments Elena Anaya made. Character study of movie-universe Maru featuring minor OCs. T for some allusions to sex, etc., nothing graphic.


Their first meeting wasn't romantic, like in the old novels. It was simple, disappointing even. The handful of aspiring doctors-to-be traipsed down the narrow hall like toddlers following a caretaker, warned not to stray too far and to stick together in a group. The old man in the white coat was hardly taller than Isabel, but his heavy brows frowned with the condescension of a giant, his unsteady old head shaking slightly as turned to fix the students with a disdainful eye.

"Feel free to get a good look," he said, "but I must ask you to keep your hands to yourself, at least for today." His liver-spotted hand trembled as he pushed the heavy door open, and Isabel grimaced involuntarily. She had never much liked being around old people - they told good stories, but they made her wary, on edge. It was as if they could drop at any moment.  
The gaggle of Ph.D. students spread about the new laboratory, murmuring among themselves. Isabel admired the gleaming surfaces, the shiny tubing, the flasks and canisters lined on shelves. In the corner, two men stood talking, and the wizened old doctor shuffled over to them. Isabel watched as they shook hands, smiling and nodding.

One of the men, of course, was extraordinarily handsome. Dark eyes, square jaw, not too tall. He was dressed smart but wearing no gloves, which Isabel found odd, until Dr. Whoever turned and announced, "Please, everyone, meet the man to whom we own our stunning new facility, Mr. Barry Miller."  
Smattered applause from the unimpressed audience as Mr. Barry Miller gave an awkward, modest half-bow. "I have to thank the whole team for their patience with me," he said warmly, "as the blueprints have taken longer than expected to come to life."  
An architect, then, or maybe a broker, but not a scientist. That explains the lack of gloves. The students muttered some "wow"s and some "thank you, sir"s before returning to their slow exploration of the lab. Mr. Barry Miller retreated into his conversation with the two professors, and Isabel lowered her gaze to the tight seals of glass jars, and that was that.

It would not be until three weeks later that they would see each other again. Isabel was hunched over her bench, tucked into a blessed corner that afforded a bit more privacy than those that stood freely in the middle of the floor. It had been a long day, and Isabel was one of a few unlucky students stuck watching the thin cast of dusk begin to settle over the world out the window. At one point, Isabel reached across the bench, causing her notepad to slip off the far edge and tumble to the floor.

Sighing, Isabel stood up and leaned across the desk. She had not noticed the little gap, only a few centimeters, between the desk surface and the wall. She tried to push the bench flush against the wall, but it was fixed to the floor. Isabel bent, snatched up her pad, and tossed it back on the desk in frustration. She turned to stomp across the room in search of some reagents only to nearly collide with Mr. Barry Miller.

"Pardon me, dear," he said quickly.

 _Dear._ "Mr. Barry Miller," Isabel said.

"Yes, this is he," he grinned, "I meant to come round earlier in the afternoon, but certain distractions presented themselves."

Isabel nodded, waiting.  
He glanced around. "I can see you've been held up too, eh?"  
"A bit," Isabel conceded, "but I'm wrapping up."

There was a short pause, until Mr. Barry Miller said, "I have a meeting and dinner plans with some of the fellows I worked with, and couldn't resist passing through to see the lab in action." A charming smile, like a child proud of a toy tower he had built.

Isabel lifted her chin. "Well, sir, I'm afraid I've found a flaw in your design."

His face fell. "A flaw? Where?"

Isabel showed him the pesky little space between the desk surface and the wall. "I didn't even notice it until I dropped my pad down there, and the bench can't be moved. This is most inconvenient, sir, not suitable for a professional laboratory at all."

He stared in alarm until he saw her chuckling.  
Thereafter, Isabel found herself distracted throughout the day, her projects halting, her marks inconsistent, as Mr. Barry Miller continued to make casual visits to the facility. Some days he would cut through the lab, others he would merely peek through the door for a moment. Some days he was alone, others he was accompanied by some doctor or another. Watching him speak to another student one rainy afternoon, it hit Isabel like a thunderclap. She was furious to put a name to her daydreams, to watch the fog piece itself into focused, glaring color, to feel sweat bead on her brow when Mr. Barry Miller turned and gave her a friendly wave. (She waved back.)

Some days later, they went to dinner.

Some days after that, they went to bed. It was Isabel's first time, and she suspected it was his, though he didn't say so until after. He was magnificent to look at, to touch, to hold.

And all was well for a time. They settled into a comfortable routine. The rainy season gave way to the dry season, and the dry season melted into hot springs again, windows were thrown open and shut, and the shrieks of trains rose and fell on a daily cycle as dependable as the hands of a clock.

Then, for some reason, there was an imperceptible shift. It was impossible to pinpoint at first, the way grains of sand go unnoticed on their own before, suddenly, there is a huge pile to sift through; the way leaves change color, first just one or two, and then all the rest seemingly at once. Isabel would come home late from the lab, and he would come home even later. Isabel would whip up a quick, meager dinner, but he would have already eaten. Isabel would get on top, but he would close his eyes. She tried to ignore it, at first, waiting for the right time to bring up his strange behavior, but that time would never come.

One day, Isabel returned to the empty little house as usual. As the evening wore on, she stumbled upon a note on the table. To think it had almost escaped her notice entirely! It doesn't matter what it said - the details don't, at least - because she ripped it up and threw the pieces into the fire, screaming.

Isabel barely left the lab for the rest of the term, unable to bear much more time than she had to in that house with its cold bed and traitorous kitchen table. She could work faster than ever now, and hated it, but was able to finish most of her projects early. Nevertheless she stayed late at the bench, often going the whole day without speaking to anyone, measuring and stirring and scribbling away long after the rest of the students trickled out. She was able to sell the little house she had inherited from her parents quickly, and it didn't take much convincing to get the proper arrangements to transfer to a school in London.

At first, even in this strange new place, Isabel saw his face at least once a day: in a puddle, a window, a passerby. In her new school, she was the only female student, despite the relatively large class size. The male students didn't speak to her, though they spend the first few weeks of the term staring and whispering. There were no female professors. After a while, the male faces began to blend together. This helped, a little.

Once, as Isabel was reaching to a top shelf, another student came up from behind and groped her. Isabel froze, boiling, silent. Slowly, he released her and walked away. Isabel did not turn to look at him. It had been brief, and nobody else saw. Isabel could not focus on her work for the rest of the day.

Two days later, standing at his station, a tiny glass capsule burst beneath his fine leather shoe and engulfed the entire bench in a foul yellow smoke. The lab flew into a frenzy of shouts and confusion. All four students who sat at that bench lost their eyesight, one his right hand, and that evening Isabel drank herself to sleep in delight.

Some time later, as Isabel was nearing the completion of her thesis, one of the wrinkled old professors summoned her to his office. "You have an undeniable talent," he graciously informed her. "It is not often that a thesis develops so cleanly."

"Thank you, sir," Isabel said, trying very hard not to sound insincere.

"Truly, in all my years of teaching I have never seen such genius and creativity."

"I'm flattered, sir."

And so continued a similar string of teacherly compliments, until: "...and that is why I have taken the liberty of identifying a sponsor for your future research."

Isabel was caught off guard. "What? I have not decided what to pursue after my thesis."

He lowered his voice, fixed her in an unnerving stare. "Well, that was decided when you planted that little gas capsule earlier this year."

Her heart began to pound, but she kept her face unreadable. "I don't understand."

"I saw you. Don't bother to deny it."

Isabel hesitated. His face was blank, almost bored. He wasn't about to turn her in, so what did he want, some kind of blackmail? "Why did you wait until now?" she asked.

"So I could analyze you. I know people who could benefit greatly from your skills."

"Who?"

He heaved himself up out of his chair, hobbled around the desk and stooped, peering into Isabel's face. His breath smelled horrible, but Isabel knew better than to move away. He made a great show of taking a wax-sealed envelope out of his jacket pocket and handing it to her.

She read it slowly as he paced around his office. A few minutes later, Isabel shook his hand and left his office with the letter.

The next morning, he was found dead of an apparent heart attack. Overworked, probably.

Isabel completed her thesis with honors.


End file.
